


Non-Intervention

by deikus_is_hellbound



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Other, WW2, World War 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 13:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8374483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deikus_is_hellbound/pseuds/deikus_is_hellbound
Summary: Alfred’s pretty sure he’s not been able to smile with any real mirth since 1939. These days he’s stuck muddling through meeting after meeting with various people giving them fake reassurances that the world’s not going to hell, that God isn’t seeking retribution on them, that America isn't going to make the same mistake of going to war again. Today is no different than any days of the past year had been. Maybe except that this time, he's lying.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not the best at the exact history of WW2 so if I got any dates wrong I am seriously sorry. You can all send me the corrections in the comments if I screwed it up! But here is a fic idea that I had. It transformed drastically from the original idea, namely Alfred admiring how strong England is by watching him endure the Blitz. But writing it was a totally other experience so it evolved into something much different. I'm still not sure if I completely satisfied with it, but I am quite fond of what it became. Let me know what you guys think!

Alfred’s pretty sure he’s not been able to smile with any real mirth since 1939. These days he’s stuck muddling through meeting after meeting with various people giving them fake reassurances that the world’s not going to hell, that God isn’t seeking retribution on them, that America isn't going to make the same mistake of going to war again. Today is no different than any days of the past year had been. Maybe except that this time, he's lyingAll Alfred can hear is the tap tap tap of his own fingers against the smooth, polished wood of the table. The meeting today is an important one, and he is certainly glad that he’s here but he knows that in actuality it wouldn’t matter at all if he were present or not. He doesn’t really contribute much to these meetings, after all, so Alfred does his best to vent his nervous energy elsewhere while Francis speaks; namely at the table. Arthur looks over at him with heavy, tired eyes. Alfred can’t stand to see him right now. The man looks as if he’s dying. He watches Arthur hide the tremor in his grip on that dainty little teacup. The Blitz had taken a toll on the other nation, but that is hardly all. He’s not even sure how many years of rationing England has been through anymore. He’s in no shape to be having bomb after bomb dropped on him. And yet he endures. He’s still personally attending meetings and getting his people to safety and arranging diplomatic affairs as if the whole situation has no effect on him at all. Though he looks as if he is paper thin and Alfred could knock him over merely by breathing in his vicinity, he endures. 

The American diverts his attention to the table once more, doing his best to quell the need to jiggle his leg back and forth, back and forth. Arthur’s eyebrows raise in a silent question. Just as he is hyper aware of Arthur, it appears that the other man is hyper aware of him as well. It had all really started after fighting side by side in the trenches, before. He and Arthur had been through a lot back then, and sought comforts from each other that they couldn’t have gotten from anywhere else. Nothing had come of it though, once the war had ended. He and Arthur had mutually and silently agreed to put it behind them and not speak of it. 

_ Are you alright?  _ It’s all in England’s expressive eyes. He’s found himself thinking a lot about Arthur these past few decades. He’d come to the conclusion that a lot of people underestimate England. Here he is, unable to send the aid that Arthur needs, sitting pretty on his side of the Atlantic, when Arthur’s capitol is continuously ravaged and the man is quietly concerned for him anyhow. Alfred absolutely beams at him in a manner that gives off an ‘I’m just peachy keen!’ vibe. Arthur is hardly fooled, but accepts the gesture of normalcy as dismissal. America always forgets that behind his flustered and posh persona, England is so strong. When he looks into England's angry eyes it’s easy to forget -- especially with him squabbling over silly things like tea and America’s penchant for food. England is far more capable than he leads anyone to believe. There’s a spirit of a rebellious pirate in the man, ready to lash out at anyone who gets too close and fiercely take the world for himself. There’s a determination in his eyes that speaks to all the invasions of the vikings on his land again and again, and then the Romans quickly after. This is a man who was born during a desolate and angry time and survived -- eventually flourished. And everyone so readily forgets, even Alfred. But tonight, as England’s tired eyes land on him it is not with anguish that he gazes, but rather with determination and fortitude. The Great British Empire will carry on, keep going and survive this calamity as it has always done. 

Alfred hates that he is not there with him in that capital when it’s getting bombed to smithereens. 

“Arthur, please.” Alfred begs the man as they close their allies meeting. It’s held in America this time, if only because this is the only place that isn’t being so readily attacked. “Don’t just go home. Stay.” He tugs at the nation’s coat sleeve, and oddly enough it takes him back to being a small child running all the way down to the dock as fast as he possibly could to catch England before he boarded a ship.  He’d usually catch nothing but a coat sleeve. England had never liked to say goodbye to him back then. 

Now he can hardly get a hello out of the man. 

Arthur jerks his sleeve away from Alfred’s grip, shooting him a hot glare. 

“Not now, Alfred.” England mutters, shoving disheveled hair from his face. “I’ve got to return home -” 

“Arthur,  _ please.”  _ He hopes that his earnest tone would cause some sway in the matter, but as Arthur whirls around, glaring venom at him, it seems that it’s only caused more trouble than good. 

“Alfred, honestly! I’ve got things to do. Not all of us are sitting pretty on the other side of the damn ocean! If you hadn’t noticed, there are  _ bombs  _ dropping on my capitol every bloody night -” 

“I know!” Alfred interrupts. “It’s not up to me. You know I would have been there as soon as I could-”

“Yeah before exhausting every other option you had first!” Arthur’s retort stings, truly. He’d love to be there. He’d love to. But Roosevelt was unmoved by any of his plights, and his people were in discourse about the entire ordeal as well. His hands are tied. 

“Arthur,” Alfred sombers, frowning. “I see that you’re hurting. Don't you dare make this about my need to swoop in and save the day. We have been through that lecture dozens of times.” Arthur’s rage doesn’t seem to fade. Actually he gives the American a dumb look, as if he’s unimpressed by the comment altogether. Alfred wrings his gloves in his hands, chewing persistently on his cheek. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to put what he’s feeling into words. The sorrow. The need. The absolute hopelessness of his situation. He wants to help. He does. And normally fighting with Arthur would be okay, they’d squabble and throw insults at eachother and then make up a few days later when Alfred whines about missing Arthur’s company. But he can’t bring himself to potentially hurt this man any more than he’s already hurting, no matter how superficial. The tired pits beneath his eyes are enough to make Alfred tremble. Arthur looks him up and down with that calculating, judgemental stare once more. Somehow this one seems more like it’s slicing him open than it is just sliding right off. Of all the people who look at Alfred with hatred, annoyance, or irritation, Arthur was the one who had always held some sort of understanding...and perhaps a bit of affection now and again - if that kiss back in 1925 meant anything. Now his gaze holds nothing but contempt. 

Alfred understands why, but he wishes that Arthur could just understand that it’s not his  _ choice.  _ A free nation doesn’t mean that he himself is free at all...that he can make these decisions for his people. If he did he wouldn’t be free. But since he doesn’t he also isn’t free. The world’s not perfect, but Alfred’s trying to make the best of it. 

“Arthur I’m worried.” He tries again, taking a step closer to the other man. “Please, just stay for one more night. Just let me see you.” He throws every ounce of pleading, puppy doggedness that he can into his stare while wringing his gloves nervously. Arthur glares back at him, arms crossed over a chest that’s  _ far too thin and it makes Alfred’s heart absolutely throb what has Arthur been eating, is he sleeping at all, can he stand another day of this-  _

“Alfred stop looking at me like that.” Arthur’s shoulders drop and he sighs, rubbing the tension out of his sinuses. 

“I can’t help it.” Alfred insists almost petulantly, as if childishness will get him anywhere in this situation. He doesn’t know what to do, he’s feeling as though his nervousness is about to rip a hole straight through his gloves. “I want to help.” Talking to the brit is like walking on eggshells, and apparently that was the wrong thing to say. 

“Well you  _ could  _ bloody well help by sending support while London’s getting bombed day after day!” 

“Arthur you know it’s not my decision!” Alfred shouts right back, but bites his tongue in fear that he’s completely ruined any chances he had. 

“You’re just a lazy oaf who’s not got a care in the world because you’re so far away from the tragedy!” Alfred huffs at this, balling his hands into fists. 

“I can’t help that Roosevelt and the rest of the populace want to stay out of it. Don’t you kn-” A door opens behind them, and a woman carrying a huge stack of papers looks at them pointedly. She seems to realize that she’d stumbled upon a rather intimate moment, and her eyes widen when she recognizes who the two men are. She scrambles for the doorknob.  Alfred rolls his eyes, grabs Arthur’s sleeve, and drags him around the corner for a bit of privacy. “Don’t you know me better than that, Arthur!” He whisper yells, doing his best to keep his voice down in the work building. “You’ve only known me nearly my entire life do you honestly think I wouldn’t be there if I could be? How  _ selfish _ do you think I am?” The fight seems to just leave Arthur at this, and the smaller nation sighs exasperatedly. He runs his thumb over the dark circle hollowing out Arthur’s cheek. “I’m so worried about you.”

“Alfred,” Arthur gives a long suffering sigh, eyeing him pointedly. It frightens him not to see a venomous bite in that stare.  No, now there’s nothing but wariness; a longing for time to stop turning. Arthur’s thin, cold fingers grip his wrists and he closes his evergreen eyes before ripping Alfred’s hands from his face. It’s a rejection he never wanted to feel; never wanted to see. “I have to return to London. I have to be with my  _ people. _ ” The man takes a few measured steps away. “I will see you at the next meeting.” Alfred doesn’t miss the unspoken alternative in Arthur’s tone. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll make it that long. 

 

***

 

“Alfred, we’ve had this discussion.” The president doesn't even look up from his paperwork to address the nation, busily writing away at something that Alfred’s sure has to do with foreign policy. Or rather the act of ignoring it. He’d sat in the oval office for a good ten minutes waiting for Roosevelt to bother to listen to him, and in that time all he’d noticed is now much the man had signed his papers and flicked his eyes toward a half emptied pack of cigarettes on the top corner of his desk. Alfred understands that FDR is a very busy man with the weight of pretty much the entire USA on his shoulders and that he himself is only making matters much more stressful, but he’d hoped to get more of the man’s attention than that small little carton of cigarettes at least. So far, that had been an utter loss, as it seems that all Roosevelt can think about is either signing his name on something, wadding up some kind of policy and tossing it into the trash, or taking a nice long drag off of one of those cigarettes to take his mind off of all the mud and slop of the state of America. If he has to hear one more tap of that glass pen on parchment he is pretty sure he will grab it and stab his eardrums with it. 

“All due respect, Mr. Roosevelt, but I think there’s more to be considered aside from the econom-” 

“No one wants another war. People will die.” His tone is so final, so separated from the reality of the situation. Of course America cares for the suffering of his own people; of course he does. But his people aren’t the only people in the world. The man finally looks up at him, setting his glass pen down on the desk quietly. Unlike the annoyance he figured he’d see, all Alfred sees on the president’s face is a sea of pity and the look of it sends Alfred’s chest into knots.  _ Pity.  _ A complete understanding of how he’s faring and yet not doing anything to help but cluck his tongue and offer his quiet condolences while he puts it out of his mind entirely. 

It’s the closest to rage that Alfred has been since the Great War. 

“People are already dying!” He all but screams, slamming his fist onto the president’s desk. “People in Europe are dying every day!” France has already fallen, and England is getting bombed day after day. What more does he need to know that the state of their allies is rather grim?

“I’m sorry, Alfred. We’re not going to shove ourselves into another world war just because of your fondness for ancient European ties. We’re still suffering from the last one.” Alfred scoffs, as if to say, so is everyone else, but the president is done talking about the issue, apparently, as he picks up that glass pen once more and returns to his paperwork. Alfred chews on his already raw cheek and takes a deep breath. The serene smile that spreads on his face is one he’s only been able to keep up for so long because of habit. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. President.” Alfred all but sneers at the man. “I didn’t realize I’d become an independent nation so you all could sit like cowards and ignore the suffering of everyone else.” Alfred withdraws his clenched fists from Roosevelt’s desk, straightening his spine as he does his best to swallow his own disgust and outrage. “You all have seem to have forgotten what it is we stand for.”  _ And that those countries are my family.  _  Alfred snatches that box of cigarettes from the corner of Roosevelt’s desk and flashes the man his best beaming smile at his raised brow. He turns on his heel with a practiced sort of calm, gloved hand searching for that lighter he keeps in the inside pocket of his bomber jacket. .The receptionist isn’t fooled by his serene demeanor when he steps outside of the president’s office, and she can’t stand to make eye contact with him for more than a few brief seconds. She doesn’t tut at him when he lights that cigarette, and Alfred is glad for it because that shaky smile on his face feels as feeble as it ever has. 

He blows a puff of smoke toward the ceiling as he strolls out of the office, thinking that perhaps he is due for some time away from a capital full of people he doesn’t even recognize anymore. 

 

***

The year had rounded out to December  with no luck on convincing the president to allow America to participate in the war. So Alfred packed a bag and took a plane to the outskirts of Scotland, and headed as far as the train would take him to Arthur’s capitol. He hadn’t told Roosevelt where he was going, but with the amount that the man hadn’t been listening to him since September, Alfred figured he probably wouldn't notice. 

His breath catches as he notices the smoke from miles away, and the desecration is worse than the initial smokestacks led him to believe. London looks nothing like he remembered it. Rubble litters the streets, spat out by crumbling buildings charred an inky black. It looks as though no one at all has made effort to clean up after the bombs dropped, but with the amount of injured spilling across the streets Alfred can certainly imagine why. He coughs on the smog in the air, which chokes not only his lungs but the sun as well. 

Alfred knows the way to Arthur’s place nearly by heart now, but with the main street system compromised he struggles to orient himself correctly. No matter where he turns it just seems that he finds the same: wailing children, burned parents attempting to comfort starving youngsters, scorched buildings which smatter the streets, and smoking ruins on the verge of collapse. The buildings which are in tact are flocked with those who are now effectively homeless. The citizens of London crowd the remaining churches, markets, and hostels begging for food, shelter, and medical care. Alfred thinks of New York, where he’d just come from, and how the citizens there had carried on like they didn't hear the news reports. They went on toiling at work, coming home to feed their kids and maybe take the family out to the park before the sun went down. They are living in grandeur when the people here are suffering so gravely. It disgusts him how little they seem to care about the war effort. 

Luckily, finding Arthur ends up not requiring him going to the man’s home. He’s so hopelessly lost and confused in the city, adjusting his duffle nervously, when Arthur suddenly cries his name. Alfred jumps at the noise and whirls in the direction of its source. 

And his heart stops in his chest. 

Arthur looks even paler than before, if that’s even possible, and those tired pits beneath his eyes are dominating translucent skin while his frame has dwindled into something incredibly wiry and slightly hunched, as if he’s in a mild bit of pain constantly. But Arthur’s eyes are alight with hope and determination. Arthur is not only alive, but  _ well.  _ Or, as well as he can be. Alfred is so happy he could cry. 

“Artie!” He cries with a grin so happy it could nearly be manic, rushing the man and gathering him up in a relentless hug. He hears Arthur’s breath leave him and he chokes but he shoves his arms around Alfred’s neck anyway. He coughs a couple times, but his arms never relent on Alfred, if anything they squeeze him tighter. The American buries his face in Arthur’s shoulder with a laugh that is precariously bordering the line of a sob. 

“Good lord, Alfred. Are you out of your mind?” Arthur sounds so happy to see him, and Al feels like he definitely should be crying just at hearing the sound of the other man’s voice. 

He hadn’t heard a word from him since the last Allies meeting. Not a single word. 

“Maybe.” He laughs, backing up just enough to look at the Brit’s face. 

“What in God’s name are you doing here? You know it’s not safe-” 

“ _ You’re  _ still here.” Alfred interrupts. Arthur rolls his eyes. 

“Of course I am you bloody git.” There’s no malice in his tone, only a jovial lightheartedness that he hasn’t heard since 1935. Alfred smiles gathering him up another time. 

“I came to help. If I can’t get my country to help...well  _ I  _ can still be here.” Arthur sends him a measured stare, as if he knows already that Alfred’s here secretly. Arthur always had been able to tell when he was lying. Truth be told, Alfred really isn’t the best liar in the world if you know him all that well. 

“Roosevelt is going to maim you when you get back.” Arthur cards his fingers through Alfred’s hair lovingly, and he thinks that even if he does get his ass thoroughly chewed when he gets back to the states, seeing Arthur’s lifted spirits would be more than worth it. 

“If he wanted to send me here protected then he should’ve sent troops.” Arthur mulls that over with a prim little hum, before he shakes his head with a smile. 

“You are a daft fool, disobeying him like that.” 

“Disobeying orders seems to be one of my strong suits.” This makes the brit laugh, and he pats Alfred’s shoulder affectionately before shuffling out of his embrace. 

“Well you’re right about that, Alfred.” The brit gestures toward one of the smouldering churches. “Come on, if you’re here to help, you can help me look for survivors.” 

For the first time in years, the tight knot in Alfred’s chest seems to loosen a little. He grins, following Arthur through the crowd. 

Despite the astonishing number of dead, and the even more colossal number of injured, the british people seem to be as resilient as ever. They knit together in tight groups to pull people from the wreckage, and those who can afford to have started toting those in dire need of medical care to the closest medic bays still intact after the bombs. They’re at work the whole day, and Alfred at one point gets enlisted to help the children find water and food, which is great because he  _ loves  _ kids. He makes it a challenge to make sure that all the kids at the hostel leave with at least two gallons of water and a smile on their faces. 

After the sun sinks too low for them to properly search for refugees anymore, Arthur comes back to the hostel to collect Alfred, pulling him away from a rather pouty child who he had been playing ball with. Alfred merely chuckled and ruffled the kid’s hair as he handed the youngster back over to his weary mother with a reassuring smile. 

Arthur’s apartment is still in one piece as well, and Arthur kindly takes Alfred’s bag for him. Arthur doesn’t have much to offer in the realm of food and modern comforts but Alfred doesn’t mind at all, because all he really came for was Arthur’s sake. Arthur goes out of his way, anyway, and gives the American and himself a pot of dwindling tea to enjoy while they talk between the lamplight on the couch. 

“Have you heard anything from Francis?” Arthur sighs at that, taking a long sip of his tea. 

“He’s so busy trying to keep peace between the occupation and his people. I haven’t gotten much more than a letter since the last meeting. Supposedly Ludwig has the north half occupied.” Alfred frowns, looking down into the cloudy brown waters of his tea. He’s afraid to ask how the rest of Europe is faring. 

“And Mattie?” 

“I would imagine he’s doing his best for the south half.”  Arthur murmurs, grasping his teacup so that the hot liquid will warm his chilly fingers. Alfred purses his lips, unbelievably angry at his own government. He sips at his tea to try and cast it from his mind, because there is nothing that he can do. “Alfred, I really appreciate what you’re doing.” 

“Well, I am the hero after all!” He tries to make it sound chipper for Arthur’s sake, but he knows that it just comes out sarcastic and dejected. He laughs at himself, sinking into the cushions of the sofa. “Even if my country is being a piece of shit right now.” Arthur’s smile is gentle and knowing, and he moves a hand from his tea to put it over Alfred’s knee. 

“I’m sorry I yelled at you before.” Arthur murmurs. “I knew better than to say those things. I was just frustrated.” Alfred laughs. 

“I know you didn’t mean them. You weren’t entirely wrong anyway.” Alfred takes Arthur’s fingers in his hand, running his thumb over the bony knuckles absentmindedly. “I  _ have  _ tried convincing Roosevelt to get into the war, but he won’t. He told me that I shouldn’t be so attached to you guys.”  He explains with an eyeroll, and the brit snorts at that, leaning over to rest against Alfred’s shoulder. 

“Bloody git.” Arthur murmurs with a chuckle, before taking a sip of his tea. 

“You’re not wrong. He’s good at his job though. The people love him.” Alfred traces the divots between Arthur’s knuckles, noticing how cold they are in his hand. 

Arthur hasn’t pulled his hand back yet. 

“Well when the war gets-” Arthur stops abruptly and his teacup lands on the floor with a dull thud. Instead of sitting up in surprise, he curls in on himself, grimacing. 

“Arthur -” But he doesn’t have to ask because Alfred hears a deafening explosion, and then the piercing scream of a raid siren. Alfred sucks in a worried breath, and Arthur fists a hand in his hair, tugging. His grip on Alfred’s hand bleeds white and his nails dig into Alfred’s hand. “Arthur tell me how to help.” Alfred nearly feels panicked. He shouldn’t. He knew this had been happening, and it shouldn’t be a surprise that it happen while he’s here. 

“There’s nothing,” Arthur’s normally posh accent turns thick and muddled as he tries to keep his bearings about him. “It’ll pass, eventually.” Alfred gathers the smaller man in his arms worriedly, trying to offer any form of comfort that he can. He waits patiently for Arthur to stop shaking in his arms, and for the loud bombs to stop falling, stop falling,  _ stop falling -  _

But a whole hour later and they do not. Arthur’s dissolved into a trembling mess, and when yet another bomb goes off he screams, writhing in Alfred’s grasp. The man worms his way onto the floor, hunched, coughing and sputtering. Alfred chokes on a startled cry as he sees the blood seeping through the back of Arthur’s vest. 

“Oh my god, Arthur…” He trails off, sinking to his knees beside the man he once called big brother who had been so untouchable and invincible in his mind’s eye. Now he’s kneeling on the floor at his feet, looking as if he’s about to wither away into ash with the rest of the city around him. 

There’s nothing he can do to help. The wounds would just reopen if he dressed them, and all they can do is just wait it out. He absolutely detests the feeling of helplessness. He’s the  _ hero,  _ the one who always is supposed to come to the rescue, save the day, and make sure everyone   lives happily ever after. But he can’t even help Arthur while his capital is being torn to shreds. 

“Al-Alfred,” Arthur chokes, lifting wary eyes to his former ward’s face. “Love, don’t cry.” Alfred doesn’t know when he’d begun to cry but as he swipes at his cheeks he finds it true. He sniffs. 

“I-I’m sorry. That’s so silly of me.” He laughs at himself, cupping Arthur’s cheeks. “If anyone should be crying, it’s you.” He rests his forehead against the Brit’s, tracing Arthur’s delicate cheekbone, splaying warm fingers down his neck. “You’ve always been so strong.” He whispers that part, knowing that the “stronger than me” stays in the back of his throat. 

Maybe Arthur’s not physically stronger, but he certainly is mentally. Alfred crumbles even upon seeing the man suffer. But the man chuckles weakly, leaning his weight into the American. Just that gesture shows Alfred how much Arthur trusts him...and also how much he’s hurting. 

“Crying at a time like this,” Arthur’s eyes snap shut and he takes in a sharp breath. Alfred hears the bomb go off somewhat nearby and he clutches Arthur frantically, as if to protect the man with his own body. The moment passes, and shortly after Alfred hears the wailing of the firemen sirens. At least they’re trying to maintain some kind of order. “Crying at a time like this is hardly a sign of weakness.” Arthur repeats knowingly, before opening those bottle green eyes once more to stare fondly at Alfred. “It’s a measure of compassion.” Arthur presses a palm flat over the breast of Alfred’s chest, feeling that strong, hammering pulse. “You may be a brat, but you’ve a wonderful heart.” England runs his thumb over the American’s chest idly. Alfred notes that he can feel Arthur’s shuddering breath, fluttering raggedly against his skin in this proximity. He wants to be this close to Arthur always. They’d been so separate for so long. He smiles at Arthur sadly. When had they become so distant?

And how did he get himself into a situation where he couldn’t send possibly the only friend he has the support he needs? What’s the point of being free if he can’t do the right thing? 

“It’s what I always loved about you,” Arthur breathes after a minute. Alfred rubs warmth back into Arthur’s trembling arms. 

“I thought you only loved when I shut up,” he remarks casually, trying to keep the air light. 

“Git.” Arthur mutters. “Here I am feeling sentimental confessing my love for you, and you make jokes.” The man laughs mirthlessly, “but what else should I expect from you?” Alfred laughs. 

“Hey, but I got you to smile.” 

“You did.” Alfred hopes that it was a real smile.

“I love you too, Arthur.” Arthur kisses him then, and unlike 1925, Alfred knows what this one means. 

Once the raid had settled, Alfred had dressed the Brit’s wounds. He’d been completely appalled at the thick ropes of inflamed skin blossoming across Arthur’s back, but he’d done nothing aside from chew on that now bloody bit of cheek to acknowledge it. He hopes for Arthur’s sake they don’t scar up. Alfred had to resist the urge to rub over them tentatively and take stock of what damage was worse. He knew Arthur wouldn’t have appreciated his prying in this affair. It had been odd, today, seeing that the British people didn’t remotely seem bothered by the bombs. Rather, they nearly seemed to take it as a challenge. He supposes he understands. They are the last European force resisting the Germans. Ludwig had already tried starving them out and that hadn’t worked. Alfred sighs, shaking the thoughts from his head for now. Arthur needs his attention. Once he’d stitched the skin as well as he possibly could and made sure the trembling man was tucked firmly into bed, he went digging through his duffel which Arthur had surprisingly placed in his bedroom. 

“You don’t need to go all out of your way.” Arthur murmurs, wiggling so his arms are free of the thick  _ duvet  _ as he calls it. 

“Please.” Alfred rolls his eyes with a charmed smile. “You’re in no condition to be fussing at me. Let me do my thing.” He grins when he finds the correct pair of sleeping pants; flannel. These are his favorite. Alfred takes the suspenders from his shoulders, and works the fabric off his hips. 

“And ‘your thing’ includes undressing in my bedroom?” Alfred rolls his eyes, tossing those pants back into the duffle to switch to his new ones. 

“You’re acting like you haven’t seen me change before.” Alfred mutters, spinning on his heel to look at the whining man while he unbuttons his shirt. 

“I’m teasing, dear.” Arthur comments it drily, and his tone saps any sweetness from the word ‘ _ dear’.  _ Alfred shrugs his shirt off and pulls on the nightshirt, deftly making quick work of the buttons. Alfred smiles wide, happy to see that even in this sorry state, Arthur can still make jokes. Why everyone thinks that he can’t is beyond Alfred. Perhaps they just do not understand the man. 

“Do you need anything else before I head to bed?” Arthur falls silent for a minute, glancing at the curtained window. 

“‘Your thing’ could also include not sleeping on the sofa, since you already decided to give me a show, anyway.” His tone is joking but he refuses to look the other man in the eye. Alfred blinks for a moment, adjusting his glasses to make sure he’s seeing that slight twinge of pink correctly. He supposes he doesn’t really need to sleep on the couch. In fact, he’d only intended to out of habit.. But Arthur had brought his duffel in here. A subtle hint even when he’d shown up at the door. 

There’s no time like the present. 

“Well what a relief!” He exclaims, trotting over to the bed. “My back is definitely going to thank you in the morning!” Arthur scoffs as Alfred slides into bed beside him. He can hear his own pulse in his ears. He’d never thought in a million years that this is where he would end up sleeping. After so long…

There’s something that almost seems wrong about it, but at the same time he wouldn’t have it any other way, because the gentle shift in the mattress when the other man takes a deep breath is the single most comforting, solid thing he has ever experienced. Alfred places his head on Arthur’s shoulder, shifting till the man finds a position that doesn’t bother his injuries. He places his hand over Arthur’s chest so he can feel the solid, albeit rapid, pulse there. Neither of them speak. Alfred only needs Arthur’s presence to feel content, and the reassurance that the man is alright lets him relax enough to fall asleep. He merely hopes they don’t wake up to chaos. 

 

***

 

The phone is ringing. He whines after the second ring, unwilling to rouse himself from whatever cocoon of warmth he’s nestled into. But that little buzzer keeps going off relentlessly and while Alfred was content to completely disregard it, his bedmate was not. Arthur gently removes Alfred from his shoulder, moving to sit up with a grimace. 

“S’alright,” the American slurs, “I’ll get it.” He assumes it’s probably for him, anyhow. The Brit sighs thankfully as Alfred rolls out of bed, shuffling to the telephone. The operator informs him that it’s a long distance call from the States and Alfred frowns irritably and informs her that she can put the call through. 

“May I speak to Jones?” It’s Roosevelt’s voice and he sounds beyond all measures of livid. Alfred imagines he’s probably bought himself a new pack of cigarettes and is angrily taking drags off of one on the other side of the line, stinking up the office. Alfred smirks.  

“Oh well how-dy Mr. President you have called the right place.” Alfred throws in a heavy southern drawl for good measure, leaning up against the trim to get comfortable. This is going to be a  _ lovely  _ morning.

“ _ Alfred.”  _ The man nearly hisses. “What in the blazes are you doing in London right now?” He sounds close to screaming. 

“Oh you know. Exercising that good old American spirit. Good samaritan vibe Mr. President; surely you’ve heard of it?” 

“Alfred this is no time for you to be acting like some rebellious teenager!” 

“Teenage years came and went, Sir. I’m just doin’ my civic duty. Helping a friend in dire need.” Alfred tangles the cord around his finger. 

“It is dangerous over there!” He exclaims. “You’re completely unprotected.” 

“Aw, shucks! I didn’t know you cared so much, Sir.” Alfred makes sure to lay it on real thick, making absolutely sure that Roosevelt can see his expression with his tone of voice. Roosevelt growls on the other end of the line, and while he gets his blood pressure worked up, Alfred turns around to view Arthur in bed through the doorway. The man’s not even trying to hide his meddling, staring at Alfred with an ‘I told you so’ expression. He winks with that shit eating grin, wiggling his fingers in acknowledgement. Arthur rolls his eyes but seems amused, at any rate.  

“ _ Jones.”  _ Roosevelt seethes. “Do you know what kind of a ruckus you’ve caused, up and leaving like this? I called to inform you of the attack on London because you expressed your concern; and let’s talk about how surprised I was to find that you  _ weren’t even in the states.”  _ The man’s voice picks up loud enough that he’s sure Arthur can probably hear it. “This is a time of war,  _ Jones.  _ This is no time to be away from your country. Certainly not somewhere we know is being constantly attacked.” 

“Don’t lecture me about wartime, Sir. I have lived through far more than you ever will.” The other end of the line goes dead silent for a minute, and all he can hear is the rustling static. “Besides, what’s it matter if I am there or not? It’s not like any of you are listening to a word I say.  _ ‘America, land of do whatever the fuck you want.’”  _ He hears the president huff on the other end of the line. 

“Your ass better be back in the states in two days. We are having an important meeting that you definitely need to show up for.” Alfred wants to ask ‘or what’ but the look that Arthur is giving him stops his mouth from uttering it. “Are we clear, son?”  

“Clear as crystal.” Alfred replies flatly. 

“Good.” Alfred hangs up the phone and lets out a long suffering sigh. He slinks back toward the bed, crawls back under the sheets, and shoves his face into the pillow he had not used all night. Thin fingers card through his hair softly. 

“That sounded like it went well.” Arthur murmurs. 

“It went how I expected it to.” Alfred admits, turning his head from the pillow to grin at the other man sheepishly. For centuries he had attempted to keep his squabbles with his own government from Arthur’s ears, lest he be reprimanded for being naive, or receive another lecture about how it wouldn’t have happened if he had just stayed loyal to the queen.  Of course, now Arthur would never suggest anything like that, but the habit had stuck around quite well and for the most part, Arthur (and the rest of Europe, for that matter) had been shut completely out of his government. 

“I can not fathom how you get away talking to your government like that.” Arthur admits. “The Queen would absolutely have my head.” Alfred laughs at that, trying to picture Arthur’s beloved queen doing anything to him other than shower him with affection, like the majority of them had for the centuries that Alfred could remember. 

“What are they going to do to me?” Alfred points out, “Evict me?” He laughs at the thought of his own government trying to banish him from the land. Only in his country would something so ridiculous happen, but then again that’s why he loves it so much. He’d never give up his country for anything...but that doesn’t mean they are always in the right, either. 

“I wouldn’t incur the wrath of your own people, Alfred.” Arthur’s tone is telling, but Alfred opts to disregard it in favor of rolling over onto his back. 

“Ah, whatever! They’ll get over it. I told them I would be back in two days for the oh so important Roosevelt meeting.” AKA: ploy to get Alfred home. He knows good and well that there was no super important meeting a day ago when he left for London, because he would have waited till after it to leave. He understands why the man wants him back home so much, but this is low. Arthur rolls his eyes. 

“Bloody oaf.” He mutters, giving Alfred’s hair a gentle tug. Alfred grins, swatting at the man’s hand. 

“Whaddaya want for breakfast, Artie?” The Brit turns pink at this, and if it’s out of embarrassment for his needing to be waited on, or for his lack of food, Alfred isn’t sure. 

“It’s quite alright, we can go out and get something.” 

“Nonsense!” Alfred sits up abruptly, startling the other. “I am confident in my skills as a chef! And my bedside manner is  _ great!”  _ Arthur is hesitant, but Alfred already goes speeding off into the kitchen before the man can protest. 

Arthur doesn’t have much. Half of the ingredients that Alfred deems as “stock” are rationed to hell and back, and that leaves him without much meat, butter, eggs, milk, cereal, tea, jam, or canned foods. Quite honestly it all seems rather bleak, but he does find some good fresh foods to work with; and a succotash is a simple dish to make that doesn’t really  _ require  _ meat (even if it’s better with it). He’ll let Arthur do what he wants with the few precious commodities that he has left on hand. He’s got a steaming plate of sauteed vegetables before long and a cup of water for the man, carrying it back to bed for him and everything. After breakfast he dresses Arthur’s back once more, he convinces Arthur to take a break from the relief effort for the day if only at least to recover from the horrendous blow the night before. 

The next couple of days pass in the same fashion, luckily with more sporadic, clipped raids instead of the horrendously long one from the first night of his arrival. But Alfred’s back on the road far too soon for his liking, taking a plane back to the States where he has to leave a severely weakened Arthur behind to deal with encroaching German forces all on his own. 

 

***

Roosevelt had made the meeting very hastily indeed, seeing as no one had any notes prepared and most of the accounts and points and topics alike were what Arthur would refer to as ‘ _ useless drivel.’  _ For all of Alfred’s boisterousness and crackpot ideas, people often mistake him for a fool. He is no such thing, and the entire meeting he can see the crease in the president’s brow anytime he casts his gaze in the man’s direction because the knowledge of the reality today is mutual. Whether it’s with nervousness or guilt, Alfred’s not sure. Neither option makes him feel any more sympathetic. Anytime he’s called on for input, Alfred makes sure to smile warmly so he keeps the whole feud between himself and the object of his annoyance. He takes great care to answer as he normally would. Roosevelt can tell that the nation is off, though. Alfred wonders if he’s fingering that box of cigarettes in his pocket, itching to light one up to distract from the heaviness of Alfred’s gaze. 

Alfred knows all about staring someone’s self esteem, confidence, and morale into the ground. He had learned from a man who tamed half the world to be his, after all. 

And then he’d broken from that same man ruthlessly. He can be a master of intimidation, when he wants to be. It’s particularly effective when no one expects it of him in the first place. He swears that the President is twitching by the time the meeting draws to a close. Alfred hangs back due to an unspoken promise of confrontation. Roosevelt does the same, crossing his leg at the ankle because he knows that he’ll likely not get to leave his seat for just a while yet. He smiles at the secretary who looks at him warily. Her weak smile in return only makes this all the more promising. He sits in silence, staring at the man who had coerced him into being here out of false pretenses as he waits for the shuffle of footsteps to recede. The president blinks slowly as if waiting for Alfred to pipe up. He shifts uncomfortably, and honestly watching him squirm in anxiety is probably more satisfying than actually seeing the look on his face when Alfred had showed up earlier to the White House looking disheveled because he’d just hopped off a plane. There’s no mistaking that he takes his government’s affairs very seriously, but if Roosevelt is going to pitch balls like this, then Alfred’s going to bat. 

“Jones-” 

“Do not.” Alfred interrupts, standing up from his chair. “Do not even start with me.” He takes a deep breath, orienting his thoughts in a cohesive list. It’s like any other official meeting. Bullet points: relay, define. “I understand that you are under a lot of pressure here. This  _ is  _ war time, no matter how much you want to pretend that we’re somehow safe from the whole mess. Do  _ not  _ misunderstand me. I would be here if you were doing anything important toward the warfront. But you’re not. I take my role here very seriously. I  _ want  _ to help. There is nothing more important to me than the survival of this country. 

But you were blatantly disregarding me for months, not even attempting to put word out on the streets that we need to help Europe before we’re all put into concentration camps and fascism dominates the world market. Obviously I wasn’t going to get anywhere as a nation, but I could as a person. So  _ I  _ went to do what was right.  _ I  _ went to go help where you refused to. And then you have the gall to use my own government against me to coerce me back here on business that wasn’t anything more than smoke and mirrors?” Alfred refrains from seething, biting that horribly sore bit of cheek he’d been worrying at for months. It still hadn’t healed up after this long. “Of all the underhanded things to do. You pulled me away from my  _ family.  _ Arthur is  _ hurting  _ and horribly wounded. And France has already fallen. Everything to the UK’s south is occupied. He  _ can’t  _ get help from anyone else. And at this point no one has any help left to give. You took me away on a whim from somewhere I needed to be. I will  _ not  _ allow you to come between me and my family another time.”  He pauses for a moment, as if daring the other to defend himself. 

Roosevelt does not. 

“Are we clear, Sir?” The President blinks in understanding, a thin but genuine smile spreading on his lips. 

“Crystal.” Alfred pauses to stare at him for a moment, before nodding. 

“Good.” He leaves without another word, tossing those cigarettes he’d swiped into a garbage bin on his way out of the building. 

Even as the months progressed, he made no progress in convincing anyone that joining the war effort was a good idea, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Everyone seemed to be twittering around the issue, and ever since the meeting the president had given him a rather wide berth, not asking him to assist with trivial things or attend meetings that didn’t absolutely require his attention. Alfred dropped persuasive arguments at any meeting he could, and argued that isolationism wasn’t going to get them anywhere in a world that’s sharing more and more as time ticks by. He’d even bring attention to their failing negotiations with Japan, and how an attack didn’t seem all that unlikely with the way things were turning out, but nothing seemed to be swaying except the general populace’s anxiety. 

It’s hard to ignore the news reports, anymore. 

 

***

 

“Mattie, I’m just so tired.” Alfred whines, sinking into his brother’s bar. He hears the man set a mug in front of him gently, before moving to pour himself one as well. The deliciously bitter scent of coffee hits Alfred’s nose and he smiles warmly. “Thank you.” He lifts his head up to take a generous sip of the piping hot coffee. 

“I’m sorry, Al.” Matthew’s voice is so soft and smooth, a comfort in this troubling time. “At least the bombs have stopped.” 

“You’re right.” He mumbles, staring down into the bleak pool of coffee like it will take him back to England’s sofat. The bombs on Arthur’s place had stopped sometime in May, but the state of the world had not, by any means, improved. “But it’s been a year, nearly, since I have seen Arthur. I don’t even know if he’s doing alright.”

“Aren’t you exchanging letters?” The boy asks, stirring a tiny little spoonful of sugar into his coffee. 

“Well, we are but it’s not the same.” Alfred’s expression turns sour. “You know how he is. Lying about things so no one will worry.” Matthew nods in understanding, sipping at his coffee pensively. 

“I haven’t heard much from Francis either.” 

“Has he been keeping the peace okay?” Matthew purses his lips and shrugs as if it’s of no consequence. Alfred knows better. Matthew is worried, just as he is. 

“As far as I know. There’s not a lot that you can do, you know?” Alfred nods somberly, poking his lip out in a pout. 

“I do know. I hope he is doing alright.” Matthew smiles meekly. 

“Me too, Al.” 

“Hey, really.” Alfred says with a smile. “Thank you for letting me drop by. I know how busy you are with everything.” 

“Oh, it’s no problem, really. I feel like I haven’t seen a friendly face in a long time.” Alfred laughs at that, thinking that it’s all too relatable. 

“Hopefully --” Alfred’s breath hitches, a searing pain in the middle of his back ripping through him. He curses, recoiling from the counter and grasping at his shirt. 

“Alfred?!” He registers that Matthew has said something, but the coherency of it is gone, like the boy is nothing but an echo in his mind. He rips the thick sweater from his body and his skin prickles as the chilly air seeps into his bare back. He drags a hand over the skin, and finds a blotchy patch of it to be inflamed and sore, burning horribly at the contact. Matthew swallows a cry of alarm behind him that makes him wonder just how bad it looks. He curses again. Successively, more burning points erupt, and he knows now what Arthur was feeling, night after night. These are the same types of wounds he’d seen on the other man’s back nearly a year ago.  

“Fuck, fuck, Mattie --” Alfred breathes heavily. “Do you have a - a phone?” Matthew stammers for a minute, but nods, showing Alfred the way. The American does his best to mask his pain as Matthew sets up a call to the desired office. The operator passes him through to the White House, but he has to wait a long while before anyone will talk with him. The fact that they’re so inattentive is proof enough. Matthew frets over him in the meantime, setting him down on a chair and doing his best to clean the wounds as they open. After a while Alfred’s mind is muddled enough with pain that the noise of the buzzing of the phone and the searing, molten pain on his back become one in the same entity. It doesn’t even seem real when finally,  _ finally  _ the familiar voice of the president he’s gotten to know so well in these past months answers the phone. When Alfred speaks, he can’t help his clipped tone. 

_ “What happened?”  _ Roosevelt falls silent for an agonizing minute, and then in the calmest voice Alfred’s ever heard the man use, he answers. 

“We’ve been attacked, son.” Alfred’s grip on the telephone is white. 

 

***

 

His rage at the president for not declaring war sooner didn’t need to be spoken. He didn’t even need to tell the man ‘I told you so.’ It had been naive to remain out of the conflict. But war was on, and petty blame shifting was not important. The war front was split and Alfred had a lot on his hands, back then. Things had been unbelievably tense and stressful, and he not only had to focus on helping Europe, but also at keeping Japan at bay. 

He’s not sure he’s ever been more relieved than he was when he finally helped liberate France and pulled Francis from the quaking remains of his own makeshift government. He swore Francis was near tears at the sight of he and Matthew that day. 

He had delivered Kiku a blow twice that of what Kiku had delivered him in Hawaii. And to prove his point even further, he’d nearly throttled the man in a fit of rage when meeting him on the battlefield. He wonders if he’ll regret those actions with time, but he has mostly just put it from his mind.

After the war had settled Alfred and Matthew stayed over in Europe with both Arthur and Francis. Alfred wasn’t sure he’d ever see the day that Arthur and Francis were together in a room and not at eachother’s throats, but with the state that Europe had been in since ‘39, they’d been pacified just at seeing a familiar face. The group became a little makeshift family once more staying in Arthur’s expansive home in the countryside. It was just like they had been all the way back in the 18th century. Sure, he and Matthew had grown up, collected their own battle scars, and now it was usually Arthur sitting in his lap instead of him sitting in Arthur’s, but things seemed to still be normal. Alfred knows that there’s more war to come, with how testy Russia had been during the peace negotiations, but for right now, all he can do is enjoy the little things, like the sound of his little family laughing over the dinner table, acting a shred like themselves again. 

It’s hard to look back on the past century. Two world wars wreaked havoc on everyone. No one is remotely in an economical sturdy place, and they’re still trying to sort through the dead and the surviving, returning prisoners of war and concentration camp victims back home to their families, but for the first time in nearly a decade, Alfred feels at peace. He can rest easy, forehead pressed into the back of Arthur’s shoulder as the Brit reprimands Francis for something completely trivial. The whole table dissolves into a fit of laughter, and Alfred lets himself smile genuinely for the first time since 1939. 


End file.
